


Don't Slip Away (and I won't hold so tight)

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Bad Parenting, Canon Disabled Character, Codependency, Community: hc_bingo, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This time, because I already knew the rough shape of what we were talking about, I put together what Dad was trying to say while he was still choosing his words: Shaun touched me too much, and I didn't seem to reciprocate. I couldn't even guess whether that detail made it better or worse in their minds.</i>
</p><p>Set nine years before <i>Feed</i>, when Georgia and Shaun are fourteen and just barely beginning to pick apart their feelings. What they <i>do</i> know for sure is that parental intrusion is not welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Slip Away (and I won't hold so tight)

**Author's Note:**

> Filling the "cuddling" square on my hc_bingo card (on Dreamwidth).
> 
> Beta work by wildpear.
> 
> Title from "Children Will Listen", from Stephen Sondheim's _Into the Woods_.

I wonder sometimes how our family life would have been if either Shaun or I--or both of us--hadn't caught the journalism bug from our parents. What if we'd retreated from the cameras once we began resenting them, instead of choosing to be on the other side, or at least in control of what the world saw?

I imagine we would have escaped sooner. One or both of us would have found a profession that paid enough for us to move out, and we wouldn't have been mired in the subtle trap of always thinking that maybe there was just a bit more knowledge we could soak up from living with two people who were so highly respected in our shared fields. It wasn't ever their reputation or the Mason name that we wanted to benefit from; we chafed under both of those. But our parents taught us to learn from the best, and we had to admit they qualified.

Ironically, I'm the one whose skill set would've been better suited to another line of work. I always knew I had the knack and the drive to be a Newsie, but I had options that went well beyond other flavors of journalism. If I'd wanted to avoid the news--if I hadn't fallen in love with it--I could have.

Not Shaun. He had decent enough grades and _could_ have done other things, but he was born to do what he does. I have no idea how Mom felt about it in whatever secret place she stores her real emotions, but when faced with an Irwin son, Stacy Mason had no choice but to cultivate him. For his sake, even though neither of us will ever know, I hope at least a part of her loved teaching him in a way she could never love _him_ , or me, or any child who wasn't Phillip.

It was different for me. Dad taught me constantly, but instead of being my only teacher he was my gateway to countless others. I was free to read his work and he was happy to discuss it, but what he taught me was how to seek out other writing, to analyze it and peel back its layers, to see how the great minds that had come before us thought. I wanted his approval desperately, but I was able to carve out some distance from him; he opened new doors for me, but then he stood aside and waited to see what I'd come back with. Shaun didn't have that freedom--Mom _was_ his door. No matter how many walls he put up between her and his heart, he was even more closely bound to her than I was to Dad.

We both knew our doors would take us to the same place eventually, or we never would have gone through them. That didn't mean it was easy when our roads diverged.

\--From _Images May Disturb You_ , the blog of Georgia Mason, October 19, 2038. Unpublished.

**********

Some stuff about growing up never stops feeling weird. I mean, I don't think about it much: I'm this old, I'm this tall, I can lift this much weight, whatever. No one has to make me get up and go to class in the morning--something George is never gonna be able to say. Sure, she's all "go go go" once she achieves consciousness, but half of the time I have to haul her sorry ass out of bed and put caffeine in her hands to get her awake enough to boss me around.

I'm basically used to it all, even if some days I still look in the mirror and think, holy shit, I'm technically a responsible adult now. An adult who makes a living doing stupid things, and kind of a slacker on some fronts, but still. Shaun Mason: responsible adult. I used to think the world was doomed if everyone else looked at their reflection and felt as much like an impostor as I did, but I guess probably the world's been getting along relatively well forever because we all fake it well enough.

The one thing I still can't quite wrap my head around is that George is, like, half my size--not literally, but we were basically the same height until we were thirteen. Sometimes I still notice she's looking _up_ at me and it freaks me the fuck out. My sister is a force of nature. There's something fundamentally wrong about being able to throw her around.

\--From _Hail to the King_ , the blog of Shaun Mason, July 23, 2036. Unpublished.

**********

**May 2031**

"Give me a sec, Mom!" Shaun's voice broke into my dreams just before the weight of his arm came to rest across my back. He was kneeling beside my bed, half hugging me, and his voice was strained; even through my stupor, I could tell he was trying not to sound mad. "George," he said, shaking me. "George, are you awake? Mom's taking me for the weekend."

That woke me the rest of the way as effectively as the ice water he usually threatened me with. "What?"

Having gotten my attention, he whispered, "My door's open."

I lifted my head and tried to focus on the door connecting our rooms. It was cracked open, but not leaking much white light; he'd made sure to switch his lights off instead of just closing the door firmly.

"Shaun, hurry up!" I wasn't used to hearing Mom's voice from Shaun's side. It sounded like she was only in his doorway. It was still too close. That was _our_ space.

His arm tightened around me when I stiffened. "She told me not to wake you."

Of course she had. How her two fourteen-year-olds might feel about being separated for three days with no warning probably wasn't a factor in her desire to hit the road promptly--unless, of course, it was the _key_ factor.

I untangled myself from my blanket and sat up to hug Shaun back. "Be careful."

"I will." He kissed my forehead impulsively, bumping his nose against my hairline. "I'm sorry. She didn't tell me."

"I know." I didn't kiss him back. I've never been the affectionate-kissing type, although I liked that he was, and lately I'd been afraid that if I "impulsively" kissed him I'd do it someplace I shouldn't. "Don't worry."

"Make sure Dad feeds you something besides pancakes."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "That's the only thing he can cook. I'll make him put different stuff in for variety."

"Blueberry pancakes for breakfast, banana pancakes for lunch, buckwheat and apple pancakes for dinner." Shaun mimed gagging. "Feel free to dig into my field rations."

"I'll raid as necessary. Besides, I know how to reheat stuff from the freezer as well as Mom does."

His answering grin didn't mask his worry. "That doesn't mean you'll bother. Promise you'll try to get some sleep?"

"I promise." For all the good it would do. "Get going."

"Okay." He gave me a final squeeze and left, shutting the connecting door firmly behind him. I listened to the faint scraping sound as he slid the light damper in place under it, and then the click of the door between his room and the hallway. Footsteps on the stairs, his and Mom's, and her voice; I didn't try to make out what she was saying. Then there was silence until I heard the sound of her van pulling away. He was gone.

I buried my face in my pillow. It was a no-win situation: he _had_ to go, and not just because Mom said so. He needed all the field experience he could get, and Mom took him out every time she could get away with it. There were plenty of reasons I couldn't go too, starting with my total lack of Irwin inclinations and ending with the fact that Mom and I would drive each other over the edge. Shaun copes with her much better than I do, which always makes me feel like I should cope better with Dad. It's never worked out that way.

Dad shows one facade to Shaun, the child with whom he has so little in common, and a very different one to me, the child who's always soaked up knowledge as fast as he's willing to dole it out. Mom demands a lot from Shaun, and he gives it to her; Dad demands almost nothing from him, and that's what Shaun gives him--no more, no less.

That's not quite how it is with me and Mom. She expects me to live up to _Dad's_ expectations, and whatever else it is she wants from me, she doesn't want badly enough to ask me for it. She just makes sure, without ever _saying_ so, that I know I'm not delivering.

It's one of the starkest differences between me and Shaun. He can breathe around them both, but one way or another, I'm always suffocating.

Every time Shaun left with her, we were both haunted by the specter of the second time she'd taken him out overnight. The first time, neither of us had realized how badly it would affect me to know he wasn't there. Compared to me, he's the one who's downright clingy, and besides, I'd slept tolerably the handful of times I'd traveled alone for medical tests--not _well_ , by any stretch of the imagination, but I'd stayed functional. That first time Mom took him, it was just as well I didn't have to leave the house while they were gone. If I had, I might not have survived the experience; I had such severe insomnia that anyone could have reasonably looked at how I was stumbling around and assumed I'd gone into amplification.

The second time, we both hoped it had been a fluke, that I'd be able to fall asleep without him. I promised to try, the same way I'd promised every time since then. But it was the first and only time he asked me to tell him I'd be fine. I only stared at him, because it wasn't true, but _saying_ I wouldn't be fine felt like asking him to stay. I've always promised myself that I'll never hold him back, because if I ever try, he'll let me.

Not coincidentally, that was when I began resorting to caffeine to stay awake. I'd been stashing Coke in my room ever since, bringing it in a can or two at a time in hopes that Mom and Dad wouldn't pick up on the quantity I went through when Shaun was away.

But the first day was never too bad. I wasn't underslept yet, so I could still put on a decent face for Dad. I dragged myself to my feet with a sigh, snagging a pair of sunglasses on my way to the bathroom. Dad wouldn't try to haul me out of bed the way Mom would, but the look I'd get if I got up too late still wouldn't be fun.

**********

"Morning," I said as I came into the kitchen. Dad was at the stove, and sure enough, the whole ground floor smelled like pancakes, although Shaun had gotten the order wrong: they were banana, not blueberry. "Just you and me, huh?"

"Looks like. Your mother wanted to take advantage of the long weekend." Dad flipped a pancake twice, making sure it was perfectly golden on both sides. "Want this one now?"

"I'll wait," I said. He popped the oven open and added the pancake to the impressive stack being kept warm inside. That explained the flavor choice. Banana was my favorite of the available options, and his least favorite--the banana flavoring that's used now that the actual fruit is mostly extinct is one of the "substitute foods" he's never adjusted to--so he was trying to keep me happy. "Looks like you're getting our meals ready for the whole weekend."

"Well, I have a lot of work to catch up on." He turned to face me instead of pouring more batter into the pan. "I'm taking over a new class next semester, so I've got lectures to prep. Want to help your old man out and give them a listen?"

I smiled for him. He wanted me to listen about as much as Mom wanted Shaun in the field with her--which was to say he didn't mind, and since teaching me was the most paternal thing he was capable of, he thought he ought to ask. "Are they interesting?"

He smiled back. "You'll have to tell me."

"Okay," I said.

A great teacher needs love for his subject, if not necessarily for his students. Our father has the former in spades, and to all appearances, he takes great pride in how I apply everything he's taught me. If I'd ever been sure it was genuine, that might even have been enough for the little girl inside me somewhere who wants nothing more than her father's approval.

The certainty that he doesn't love me hurts, of course, but Shaun has always given me all the love I need. What's hard is that there are moments when I could almost believe Dad is as proud of me as he seems. But what our father taught me is to always dig deep, to always believe a painful truth over a comfortable falsehood, and to always trust what my gut tells me once I've gathered all the information I can. In the process, he taught me that I can never believe _him_.

Too bad he never taught me how to stop wishing I could.

While Dad scraped the last batter into the pan, I set the dining room table. I deliberated over whether to clear away all of the books Shaun and I had left there the night before, and settled on organizing them into a tidy pile. Dad was likely to accept the compromise, with only the two of us there to use the table for meals.

As I was finishing up, he came in with a plate heaped with pancakes. I took my usual seat, and he sat down across from me, setting the plate between us. He waited for me to help myself. I waited for him.

The issue at hand wasn't who got the hottest ones--at least, not exactly. It was that Mom doesn't like the way I eat pancakes.

He caved first, although he gave me a conspiratorial look while snagging the top two. Apparently we were having a shared moment of rebellion while Mom was gone. Way to enforce your partner's rules in her absence, Dad.

Not that I was above taking advantage. I poured syrup on my plate, took a pancake, and rolled it up for easy dipping. They're perfectly good finger food as long as they're not too hot to hold. "Yum," I said. Let him decide if I was being triumphant or grateful.

"You'll tell me if you get tired of these?"

That was never going to happen--pancakes really _were_ the only thing he could make, and I'd rather be bored by edible food than confronted with the alternatives. Plus they'd be easy to reheat when I got hungry at four in the morning. "If I need a change, I know where Shaun keeps his field rations."

Dad cleared his throat in a way that made me tense. God, you'd think they'd learn which signals tip us off and _stop giving them_. "So, Georgia..."

"Yes?"

"I was hoping we could talk."

"Fire away," I said. It was a bit less snarky than _We seem to be talking already_ , and as long as I stay reasonably respectful, he likes it when I show what he calls a bit of spunk when talking to him. It's a constant balancing act. Things are simpler with Mom, who'd label the same comment "being mouthy".

He worked through two bites of breakfast first. I followed his example, careful not to fidget.

"Your mother and I are concerned," he said. "I'm not sure how to put this." I sat back in my chair, not trying to keep the _bullshit_ look off my face. He might not know where the conversation would go once I started replying, but I'd bet anything he had the beginning scripted. "I realize you and Shaun were never in favor of having separate bedrooms, but you know our reasons. You're teenagers now. You both need more privacy than you're giving each other."

"We have plenty of privacy."

"Privacy from us, yes. We've bent over backwards to give you two that."

I couldn't argue. Shaun and I had had our own shared bathroom for six months, and our parents hadn't removed the locks we'd put on the doors between our respective rooms and the hallway. They hadn't even tried to starve us out when we'd spent the summer after the bathroom went in refusing to emerge for anything but food and laundry. While we were at it, I'd managed to not lay eyes on Mom for three solid, peaceful weeks.

We'd spent those weeks studying--I worked my way through two elective courses and Shaun did intensive reading on some material he'd need to pass his written exams for some of the specialized weaponry licenses we were nowhere near old enough for--and reading more fiction than either of us usually got around to. We'd spent a _lot_ of time flopped on each other's beds, switching between our rooms to change the scenery. It was the most relaxing stretch of time I could remember.

"We give each other as much privacy as we need," I said, finishing my pancake and wiping my fingers on a napkin. "Shaun almost never comes in without knocking. We've never even accidentally gone into the bathroom at the same time."

"And do you knock before going into _his_ room?"

My spine stiffened. "I don't need to. He yells through the door when he's getting changed, and it's not like he sleeps naked."

Dad looked _really_ uncomfortable now. That could only be a bad sign. "Georgia, maybe you haven't considered that there are other reasons--"

"Oh, my God." There was nothing feigned about my horrified tone as I caught on. "Are you trying to make sure I don't walk in on him jerking off? Dad!"

My cheeks were burning. On the other hand, so were Dad's. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him look so awkward. Maybe never.

All right, then. Maybe I could afford to make it worse, if that would keep him off balance while I recovered mine. "I have _ears_. And I promise, that is not something I want to interrupt, okay?" Which was one hundred percent true. If I interrupted, Shaun would stop. I liked hearing those faint sounds, even if I didn't want to think too hard about why.

Another thought struck me. "Is Mom out there having this conversation with Shaun?"

Dad coughed. "Not precisely this conversation, no."

I laughed, trying to focus on my amusement instead of the anger trying to swell up under it. Our parents like to believe they treat their son and daughter exactly the same way, but I suspected it had never crossed their minds to give Shaun the same warning I was getting. I was still Daddy's little girl in all the ways that _didn't_ matter.

"So what's she saying to him?" I asked. "If it's 'not precisely this conversation'?" Dad's discomfort didn't seem to be going away, and that was making me more nervous by the second. "Dad, come on. You know he'll tell me anyway." Which was possibly not the best thing to say, given that our parents had apparently concluded _again_ that Shaun and I were too close. I was starting to feel like they'd think we were too close as long as he and I were under the same roof.

"Well..." Dad definitely didn't have a script planned out for this, whatever it was. "Shaun...touches you a lot."

This time, because I already knew the rough shape of what we were talking about, I put together what he was trying to say while he was still choosing his words: Shaun touched me too much, and I didn't seem to reciprocate--I couldn't even guess whether that detail made it better or worse in their minds--and teenage boys are boys, after all. I had to understand that Shaun needed privacy to deal with inconvenient boy problems like wanting to fuck anything that moved, and Shaun presumably had to learn that girls need their space for ethereal girl reasons--reasons that have nothing to do with hormones, of course.

All of that clicked into place, and I couldn't think about any of it past the implicit "Shaun touches you too much", with the ugly-feeling insinuations. Whatever Mom and Dad were seeing, it bore no resemblance to the way I felt when Shaun touched me: warm and tingly and loved and _safe_.

My anger dissipated. I was too nauseated for it. "I'm sorry you feel that way," I heard myself saying, from a million miles away. "Shaun and I will talk about--" I had no words for what our parents thought. "--everything. Later."

Dad let it go. I didn't know whether it was because he still felt awkward or because I was clearly taking it poorly, and I didn't care. I ate a second pancake without tasting it; I didn't dare flee the room on the heels of that conversation. "I'll clean up," I said when I was done. "I know you have work to do."

"Thank you, Georgia," Dad said. I didn't look to see what kind of expression he was wearing. I just stood and starting taking our dishes into the kitchen.

Habit let me do the work mechanically. My hands put plates and cutlery into the dishwasher and packed the remaining pancakes away, leaving me free to imagine Shaun touching me--the way he _really_ touched me, not the way our parents thought he did--until I stopped trembling.

**********

Midway through the afternoon I went in and listened to Dad's new lectures so I could give him feedback, but my heart wasn't in it. As I was leaving, his gaze sharpened as he shifted gears from "Professor Mason", who I could deal with, back to "Dad", who I wasn't up for.

"You're not children, Georgia," he said, as if our earlier conversation had never ended. "I know change is frightening, but you can't keep it at bay forever. The two of you are going to find there's a whole world out there beyond each other, and the sooner, the better."

I bit back my first response-- _Better for whom?_ \--and replied, "Like I said, Shaun and I will talk." I couldn't keep my anger entirely out of my voice. "What do you want me to say? Should I promise to stay out of his room if he has a girl in there? Something like that?" As if. Neither of us had the security clearance to bring visitors home.

If Dad got angry in response, he didn't show it. He never does. With the amused geniality that always makes me think of parents in old movies sending their kids to the store with a fistful of coins for candy--even though Shaun and I have never experienced anything of the kind--he said, "I think some things go without saying, don't you?"

"Yes, Dad." It was just that the things _I_ thought went without saying were more along the lines of _There is nothing you can do to tear us apart_. "I do."

**********

If Dad was surprised that I spent that evening and all of Saturday holed up in my room, he kept quiet. It even occurred to me, somewhat bitterly, when I was exhausted but wide awake at five A.M., that maybe he'd timed the conversation in order to maximize the amount of time I'd leave him entirely to his own devices. It wasn't a very charitable thought. I didn't particularly care.

I got up at the same time I usually would have on Sunday morning. There was no sense pretending I'd magically fall asleep if I stayed under the blankets any longer. I repeated exactly what I'd done the day before: went downstairs, put a semblance of a meal together, and went back to my room and my computer. It wasn't as if I were going to run out of things to read.

**********

I didn't go downstairs when I finally heard Mom's van pull in later in the afternoon. Facing her on so little sleep was out of the question. Shaun had to help Mom unpack the gear, and Dad needed to ask him appropriate fatherly questions about how things had gone, so it was almost an hour before he made it upstairs. I didn't start to relax until I heard the click of his door locking behind him, followed immediately by a faint knock at the door between our rooms.

"George? You awake?" His voice was barely audible, in case by some freakish coincidence my brain had let me pass out just before he got home.

"Yes. Come in."

I was at my desk, and I didn't turn until he'd shut the door, sealing us in with my black lights. The tension in his shoulders visibly ebbed as he pulled the second chair up beside mine. "Do you think it's weird that my lights relax you?" I asked.

"Um, no?" The look he shot me was puzzled to the point of wariness. "What kind of question is that?"

"I don't know."

He gave me a slow once-over and followed his examination by poking me in the forehead. "You. Bed. Now."

"It's almost dinnertime," I said, as if I had any intention of going downstairs.

He didn't buy it. "Which means if you conk out now, you _might_ be conscious for school. Don't make me toss you on the bed."

I turned back to my screen. "Spare me. You can't--"

Shaun cut me off by the simple expedient of standing, grabbing me, and...tossing me on my bed. It happened so fast that my eyes took a second to notice I wasn't looking at my monitor anymore and stop trying to read the ceiling. _That_ was a new low for exhaustion.

"Can too," he said.

My head was wonderfully cooperative about rolling to the side so I could look at him. I wasn't so sure it'd move back if I asked it to. "This development is totally unfair."

He crouched by the bed, resting his chin on the mattress. "You have at least noticed I'm taller than you, right? And I've probably got twenty pounds on you now."

"Your stupid growth spurt makes it _less_ fair."

"Just keep reminding yourself you'll always be smarter than me," he said amiably. "Come on, George. I'm right here. Go to sleep." He started to tug my sunglasses off, and halfway through he seemed to realize he hadn't checked to see if I was feeling migrainey. That didn't stop him, but his other hand dropped to my forehead to shield my eyes from the glow of the monitor as he set my sunglasses aside.

"No headache," I said.

"Good." He kept his hand on my face. "Sleep."

"You keep saying that."

"You keep not doing it."

"As soon as I fall asleep you'll leave."

He didn't deny it. "I'll be right downstairs, and I'll be back up after dinner."

"Did Mom talk to you?"

His hand tensed over my eyes. "Yeah."

I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and tugged his hand away so I could see him. Seconds crawled by as we looked at each other--long enough for me to recommit his face to memory, as if there were a chance he'd turn around and leave again. "Dad talked to me, too."

Shaun nodded. "Did he tell you we need to spend more time in our own rooms?"

"Basically." I moistened my lips and forced my real question out. "Did Mom tell you to touch me less?"

"Yeah."

"Please don't." I was too sleep-deprived and fraught to keep the quiver out of my voice. "Don't touch me less."

Shaun's eyes flooded with that particular anger that only surfaces when something hurts me. He put an arm over my shoulders, hesitated, and slipped his other arm under me, bundling me against him. "No one but you could ever make me stop."

It had to be safe to hug him back as hard as he was hugging me. I got my arms around him and we held on in silence, awkward as it was with him kneeling and me lying down. I wasn't at all sure I could get up, or that he'd let me if I tried.

"Go to sleep," he said finally. "I'm home. And I'll _always_ touch you as much as you want me to, okay? I promise." He rested his head against mine, whispering, "I love touching you, George."

There was a vulnerability there I had to answer. "I love you touching me," I whispered back.

The longer we held each other, the more I felt a tension in him that I was fairly sure had nothing to do with me. "Shaun?"

"Hmm?"

"What else happened?"

"Any chance you can wait until you've had some sleep?" I shook my head, and he sighed. "I killed a zombie."

"You what?" Surprise made me try to jerk upright as my brain went into overdrive. "Did Mom plan it?" She must have, even though we were way too young to legally be part of a deliberate zombie encounter, never mind to actually be taken to _kill_ one. But if something had genuinely gone wrong, she would have called home afterwards. No call meant she'd chosen to violate about a dozen laws to let Shaun make his first zombie kill now.

"I guess so," he said. "She didn't give me the heads-up. It was just there. Maybe ten feet away. And she told me to shoot it, so I did." His arms tightened around me. "She's probably stashed at least five offsite backups of the footage by now, so she can release it the day the statute of limitations on getting me out there kicks in. She probably has a plan to spin it so it looks like there was no choice."

"How do you feel?"

Shaun let go of me, slowly. "I feel okay. It just wasn't like I expected. But look, can we _please_ talk about that later? I was kind of freaked out at first, but I swear I'm fine." Looking directly into my eyes, he added, "That means you can sleep." He cradled my face in his hands, and unlike the goodbye kiss he'd given me on Friday, there was nothing impulsive about the way he pressed his lips to my forehead. "Please."

"I should have been there," I said, and stopped, caught off guard by the anger in my own voice.

He didn't ask any of the logical questions: _Why? What could you have done?_ We both knew there would have been no practical advantage whatsoever to my being there, even without taking into account how bad it would have been for me and Mom to spend that much time together. But I would have _been there_ , for whatever Shaun needed afterwards--someone to sit with him while he processed, or listen to his excitement, or anything else Mom could only pretend to do.

"I wanted you there," was all he said. He squeezed my shoulder and I took the hint, lying all the way back down. He couldn't keep me from worrying about him right now, but I could help him stop worrying about me. I shut my eyes and dragged my blanket over myself, right up to my chin. The anger had burned the edge of my exhaustion off, but it would be back soon enough.

Shaun laughed at my exaggerated acquiescence. "Thanks."

"If the next words out of your mouth are 'good girl', you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

"Good to know." There was rustling as he stood up, and then the foot of my bed dipped as he claimed some space, sitting with his back to the wall. He stretched his legs out over mine, knees bent to keep from squishing me and--judging by the soft click and even softer flicker of light on the other side of my eyelids--to prop his laptop up.

"Don't miss dinner," I mumbled.

"I won't. Sleep, or I'll call you 'bad girl'."

I chose not to dignify that with an answer, although I did kick his thigh warningly as I rolled over. Instead, I listened to the sound of his typing, rhythmic and steady as a pulse, until I fell asleep.


End file.
